Blow (17 page)

Tommy looked at my gramps’s neighbor. “Get out of here, Frank. It’s not your business.”

Frank was a tough guy. Big. No-nonsense. He didn’t take shit from anyone.

He looked at Tommy and shrugged. “Just thought you should know, I called your old man. He’s on his way to get you. I also called Killian. He’s on his way to kill you. So you have a couple of options to choose from. No skin off my back whichever you decide.”

With that he turned and walked out.

Tommy bobbed his chin for the door. “Leave him and his whore girlfriend. Let’s get out of here—Declan’s in the car waiting.”

They let go of me and I lunged for Tommy.

He held up the knife. “Touch me and you’re dead.”

“Fuck you,” I spat once I’d pulled the towel from my mouth.

He smile was evil. “I’d watch my back if I were you, because the next time I see you around my town with another skank disgracing my sister’s name, it won’t end up as pretty as this did.”

My fists clenched at my sides and I started for him.

He held up the knife and pointed it toward Kayla. “I’m not fucking around with you.” He limped backwards out the door, slamming it as soon as he crossed the threshold.

I wanted to go after him, but Kayla was still bound and hysterical. I untied her and immediately pulled my bloody shirt off to slide it over her trembling body. I didn’t want to leave her and I didn’t want to move her.

She flung her arms around me and clung to me as we both spilled the blood that Tommy had shed.

Her cuts were superficial, but the emotional damage was anything but.

To her and me.

The day that Emily died will always remain a permanent point of reference for me. My life ever since has been “after” . . . but the run-in with Tommy was a day I’ll never forget, and it, too, became an “after.” Both marked an alternate path my life would take. Both had an impact on me. Yet that day with Tommy made me a different person.

We hadn’t called the police. Things weren’t handled that way and besides, Patrick had the Dorchester cops in his pocket. Rather, he and my grandfather roughed it out. The problem was, Patrick was already unofficially running things, so the punishment didn’t match the crime. My gramps had one foot out the door and didn’t have much of a choice but to agree to the terms. Patrick had sanctioned what Tommy had done as due retribution. As if he wouldn’t. My gramps allowed the incident to pass, but ordered no further engagement with me by either Patrick or Tommy, on any level. I also was forbidden from going anywhere near Tommy and he was forbidden from coming anywhere near me. Neither of us violated the order. We both knew better. I hadn’t been in the same room with him or Patrick since that night.

But that was about to change.

The thought of him had me seeing red. I pounded my fist so hard against the bathroom mirror that it cracked down the middle. Blood seeped between my fingers. I didn’t give a shit.

Tommy was going to be trouble with his second-in-command status. Sure, he was older now, but he was still a cokehead. What made it worse was that he was a cokehead with power. With troops. With eyes everywhere. And to boot, he was more ruthless than those before him had been. Women were his favorite targets. He was a motherfucker, a ticking time bomb, and a cold-hearted killer.

The truth was, now that my gramps had left the ranks, there was no way Tommy was going to stick to the treaty made years ago.

It was just a matter of time.

This situation might speed it up, but either way, he would be coming for me.

I’d be ready this time.

I looked at my scar one last time.

His time would come, but until then . . . he couldn’t see me with Elle.

Ever.

ELLE

“M
cPherson?” she gasped.

I nodded around a sip from my water bottle.

“You’re certain his last name is McPherson?” she asked again, spearing the credit card receipt that the last customer had just signed.

“Yes, Peyton,” I said exasperatedly and set my bottle down.

Cracking open a roll of quarters, she kept going. “As in Killian McPherson?”

I brought my voice down. “I’m not sure. Who is he that the name has you fifty shades of crazy?”

It was the first break we’d had all day. It was close to three and the boutique’s grand opening had been unbelievable. Sales were more than I had ever expected for my first day and the traffic in and out was insane.

Peyton closed the cash register drawer and whipped around. “Didn’t read up on Boston before you moved here?”

I blinked. “No.”

Peyton grimaced. “Oh, right, your sister. Sorry.”

“Focus, Peyton. Who is Killian McPherson?”

Her face resumed its normal charm. “Killian, the Killer, McPherson was the original leader of the Blue Hill Gang.”

My brows popped. “Okay. Are we talking motorcycle club or street gang?”

“Neither. They’re the Irish Mafia,” she whispered.

“What type of material is this?” a woman holding a set of sheets in her hands asked.

My mind was spinning. The Mafia. My sister had been involved with the Mafia. Logan was related to someone who was once in charge of underworld organized crime. Was Logan part of it too? Is that why he was so concerned about what could happen?

“It’s Egyptian cotton,” Peyton told the customer, and I was relieved. I wasn’t certain I could talk right now, my throat was so tight.

“The fabric feels so coarse,” the woman commented.

“The material softens with each wash. And it resists any type of pilling. The sheets are very durable, and extremely breathable. I highly recommend them. Egyptian cotton is known for its ability to create extra-long fibers so they not only feel luxurious on your skin, but they can last for decades.”

My mind was thinking back to episodes of
The Sopranos
, made men, earners. I just couldn’t see Logan being a part of anything like that. He was cultured, not brutish, although he was brooding. No—still, I didn’t see it. He had to be more like his other grandfather, the one from New York City that he had told me about. Yes, that made sense.

Having talked myself off of the ledge, mention of his name had me thinking about him in other ways. His rough fingers digging into my skin, his soft lips on mine, his hard body pressed to mine. Even if he was a killer’s grandson, that didn’t mean anything. We couldn’t control who we were related to—I knew that all too well.

Voices brought me back.

What the hell was wrong with me? I should stay away from him.

Peyton glared at me while she talked. Although I was only half listening, I was still impressed. She had done her homework. “Isn’t that correct, Elle?” she said, narrowing her eyes at me.

“Yes, it is,” I smiled sweetly, having no idea what I was agreeing to.

“I’ll take them. Do they come in lavender?” the woman asked.

Peyton glanced toward me with a little kinder expression this time. “I’m certain we can order that color for you. Right now we only have them in gray, cream, and light blue.”

“Oh, I didn’t see the light blue,” the woman said.

Peyton rounded the table. “It’s right here.”

“Very nice. I’ll take them.” The woman was practically giddy.

I rang her up and then handed her the beautifully wrapped package, tied with our signature red ribbon and adorned with a red bow.

Once she was gone, I turned to Peyton and shoved Logan’s deliciously deep voice from my mind. “What else do you know about the Blue Hill Gang?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “They swept the streets of Boston in the seventies and focused their efforts on racketeering, loan-sharking, and illegal gambling. Years later they merged with the Dorchester Heights Gang. Lots of rumors as to why, but no one knows for certain. Now some guy named Patrick Flannigan runs the gang and they own most of the strip clubs in Boston. I don’t really know anything else. I’m sure you could Google them.”

Google them!

I didn’t have to. I felt like I knew too much already. I was worried Michael was involved with them, and the thought scared the living shit out of me.

“Hey, who knows, they might not even be related,” she said, brushing past me and making a beeline to the table with the scarves. It was in disarray and her OCD must have kicked in.

Patrick.
Logan mentioned him yesterday. Patrick, the head of the Irish Mob, had something to do with my sister.

I felt sick.

As Peyton folded scarves, I thought about what she’d said, but I already knew Logan had to be related to him. It was the only thing that made sense over the past twenty-four hours. I stared at the intricate golden design of the cash register as my thoughts overtook me. This was so much more dangerous than I had thought. What had my sister gotten her family into?

“Elle, it’s Michael.” Peyton held out the phone that was right next to me.

I hadn’t even heard it ring.

I took it. “Hey, Michael, how’s Clementine today?” My voice was shaky.

“She’s fine.”

“Oh, good. I need to—”

“Listen, Elle, there’s been a slight change of plans, though. I had to drop her off at Erin’s house earlier today and I’m in New York.”

“New York?” I asked, leaning back on the counter.

“Client emergency. Do you mind picking her up and staying with her at the house? I should be home tomorrow afternoon, or early evening at the latest.”

Feeling restless, I moved to stand behind the cash register. “Yes, sure, of course. You should have brought her here, though. You know your sister has her hands full with the new baby.”

“It was so last minute that I hated to bother you. After I tried the nanny and she didn’t pick up, I called Erin. I have to run. I’ll be unreachable most of the night. Leave me a message if anything serious comes up.”

I searched for a pen. “Sure thing. Where are you staying?”

He had already hung up.

I felt my body slump in exhaustion.

“Everything okay?” Peyton asked. She had moved from the scarf table and was now straightening the sample bottles of perfumes and lotions lined up on the glass shelves next to the empty cabinet that had displayed the sex toys. Logan was right—they’d sold quickly.

I felt like I was in a daze. “Yes. Michael had to drop Clementine off at Erin’s and wants me to pick her up there.”

She spritzed the air with one of the scents. “I thought you said Erin doesn’t like to keep her.”

I breathed in the Jo Malone white lavender scent—it was my favorite. “It’s not that she doesn’t like to keep her. I think it’s more that she has a lot on her plate.”

“Why didn’t he just bring her here?” Peyton asked, sounding shocked that he hadn’t.

My temper was short and snapped. “I don’t know—maybe because it is our grand opening and he assumed we’d be busy with customers.”

She ignored my response and pressed on. “What about the nanny? Do you think he’s screwing her?”

Straightening my shoulders, I walked over to the empty cabinet beside her and locked the door. “No, I don’t. He said he tried her first but she didn’t answer.”

She twisted her lips. “See? He
is
screwing her.”

I rubbed my tired eyes. “No he’s not. You’re watching too much television.”

“Miss, how much are the rugs?” An older gentleman held two in his hands.

“I got this,” Peyton volunteered.

I pushed up from the counter and took a few deep breaths. I hadn’t even gotten to tell Michael about what happened last night. And now I had the whole
have you been keeping me in the dark because the Mob is involved
thing to discuss with him.

“I’m back.”

I turned to see Rachel holding a cardboard tray of caffè lattes and couldn’t be happier.

“You’re the best.” I smiled as I took the one marked
Elle
.

Rachel was a bubbly, determined, petite blonde with a lot of spunk and sass. Almost as much as Peyton, but not quite. She was still in college, had a serious boyfriend, a 4.0 average, and was pretty funny. I hired her to work part-time after three minutes of speaking with her.

She set the tray behind the counter. “I need to sweep up the coffee beans that spilled on the floor before Peyton sees them and blows a gasket.”

I laughed at that and took a welcome sip of my latte.

The store was quiet for the first time all day and I took a moment to think about everything that was happening in my life. There were so many strange things going on that the simple fact that a guy I’d just met might be involved with the Mob didn’t really faze me like it should have.

The old butler bell Peyton had affixed above the door to alert us when someone was coming in chimed, and I glanced up to see a man in a blue quilted jacket walking in.

My car. I had completely forgotten about it. Thankfully, Michael must have at least gone to the garage before he had to leave to sign off on the additional repairs.

“I have an auto delivery for Elizabeth O’Shea,” he said.

“That’s me.”

In this moment, it felt more wrong than ever pretending to be my sister. What if that was her in my yard last night? What kind of trouble was she in? Where was she? Did she need me?